Partners to be
by Svetlanacat
Summary: Things never really turned out the way you expected. They met. A few minutes. Sequel to Close to a duo. Part 10
1. Chapter 1

-Mr Kuryakin?

Things never really turned out the way you expected. Illya Kuryakin had believed that he could eventually do here as he had done for months in London. Obeying orders, getting assignment, managing to fulfill them. Merging into the crowd. Surviving. Alexander Waverly was staring at him. Partner? Yes, of course, it was logical. They wanted to try him out and this was part of a CEA's job.

-Sir? May I ask something?

But things never really turned out the way you expected. A deafening ring. A crisis. The newcomer he was had just to flattened himself against the wall. In a not so figurative sense, though Alexander Waverly had not dismissed him. A young man, dark haired, with a determined look, had raced into the office, holding a file, frowning, obviously concentrated on the problem. Nevertheless, he had stopped for two seconds, turning to him, and his expression had instantaneously changed. The brown - hazel? - eyes had warmed, and the man had smiled. A true, genuine smile.

-Oh, you are Illya? I am Napoleon Solo.

He had shaken hands with him, before going on with Alexander Waverly.

Witnessing, listening, watching, learning. The New York Uncle HQ didn't operate the same way as The London one, and Illya Kuryakin immediately spotted why. Here, there was a chief, a real one. Alexander Waverly could look like an old man. He was the man in charge. He knew, he listened, he argued, and eventually, he decided. There was a CEA. Young, quick-witted. They trusted each other. They worked together. Illya Kuryakin stared at them. The Old Man, knitting his bushy brows, taking puffs at his pipe. Napoleon Solo, pursing his lips, rubbing his chin.

-He left London last year, and...

-Six months ago, sir.

Both Alexander Waverly and Napoleon Solo turned to the Russian agent who repeated softly.

-Werner has left six months ago. His plot failed, he lost his henchmen but managed to escape. For all that I know, he took refuge in Spain, first. Then, he flew to Mexico.

-And now, he is in there...

Napoleon Solo was puzzled. The new Russian agent had looked like to be lost in thought, but he had been right on the mark about Werner. In spite of the gravity of the situation, Alexander Waverly's eyes twinkled.

* * *

Why was he there? Had he made the right decision? Napoleon Solo was gone, waving a casual good bye at him. Alexander Waverly had dismissed him, Bob Milton had shown him through the headquarter, and now, he was back home. Home. The older agent had asked him for dinner, but Illya Kuryakin felt dizzy with exhaustion.

He had locked the door, set up the alarm. He was at home, a place where he could isolate himself from the outside world. He had needed it in London. A vital need. He had to free himself from the suspicion, from the jealousy, from the despise. Here... Here, it could be different. He would have to deal with some suspicion, probably, but more than anything, he would have to deal with Alexander Waverly's expectations. Illya Kuryakin hadn't met so many people he could trust. « Trust no one, trust yourself! ». A lesson from his childhood, his youth in Russia, his life as a student... Same lesson at the Survival School, at the London Uncle HQ. The Russian chuckled with amusement. _" I know that you'll serve Uncle loyally..." _His answer had been defiant, provocative. _"Unless you'd ask me to betray my country, sir."_. Alexander Waverly had just said that it wouldn't happen. That meant: "I trust you, you can trust me." Illya Kuryakin had been about to ask... why. Why the Section 1 Number 1 was that sure he could trust the red/pinkie/commie mole the Soviet had sent in order to spy them.

He leaned his head on the back of the couch, closing his eyes with relief. The next morning, Bob Milton would take him to the HQ, and he would be, officially, a Section 2 agent. The number 2.

In a few days, Napoleon Solo would be back. A partner? The Old Man's hobby-horse, Milton's words. Alexander Waverly believed in partnership... A partner. Someone he would have to share things with. Someone...

* * *

Napoleon Solo felt tired, so tired. The place was deserted. Deserted and empty. This damned Werner had given up, or he had fooled them. They had watched around, looked for any trace. Nothing. It was discouraging, and the heavy silence reflected their sullen mood. The dark haired man suddenly wished he could find a bed, a couch, a cot, anything he could fall on, and sleep, sleep soundly. He should report. He should have reported. All he had to do was to get his communicator. Where were the three others? Outside? Exploring the surroundings? Had he given orders about that? He felt tired. So tired. He would report, but first, he had to sit down. No, to lie down, just like that, and to sleep. Napoleon Solo realized that all the hell was breaking loose.


	2. Chapter 2 That's reassuring

A partner... Alexander Waverly couldn't help admiring the young man's impassiveness. Having a partner, the Russian was not used to that, obviously. In Russia, he probably had fellow agents, no partner. Of course, no partner for a Russian agent, neither at the Survival School, thanks to Jules Cutter, nor in the London Uncle HQ, thanks to Harry Beldon. Working with someone, at his side, trusting him, believing that the other man could trust you would be something quite new. Something he would have to cope with... But it would work. Waverly believed it, he knew it for sure. From the outside perspective, Napoleon Solo looked like to be a good-natured man, nice, easy-going, though self sufficient; he was an efficient agent, a brilliant one. And an excellent CEA, too. But Waverly knew men. Napoleon Solo never let anything out. He never asked, never complained. When he did, it was obviously a joke. Whatever happened, whatever touched him, he kept it inside. He was an excellent agent, but he lacked something. Someone. A partner. Someone he would have to trust, though he was a stranger, though he was a Russian. Illya Kuryakin would be the perfect match. It would work. The Section 1, number 1 frowned: it would work if only Napoleon Solo reappeared.

The wharehouse was empty and deserted. Worse. It had been empty and deserted for a long time. The senior agent had sent the others outside, in order to look for some traces.

Napoleon Solo was inside the warehouse. He should have been inside. He wasn't anymore. The agent who had reported to him was puzzled. They had looked for the CEA, in vain. As Waverly had harrumphed, the young man had hissed, shyly, that they just had obeyed Napoleon Solo's orders. Waverly had barked.

-Stay there, look around!

* * *

The receptionist smiled at him, giving him his ID. Illya Kuryakin smiled back, thoughtfully. It was very unusual. People, there, saw him, acknowledged him. Bob Milton, the tailor, Del Floria, and now, this young woman. They saw him, and they acted... friendly. Normally.

-Mr Waverly is waiting for you, Mr Kuryakin.

And she pointed at the corridor with her chin, still smiling. Really strange, he thought, as he made his way to Waverly's office.

* * *

If he moved, he would get more tired. More tired? Was that possible? Anyway, he couldn't move. Napoleon Solo decided that opening his eyes, however, would be worth the effort. Even this was exhausting. Where were the others? Why had they let him sleep here, like that? The warehouse was very dark. But it was not the warehouse. Smaller, it was smaller, a sort of basement room, hardly lit. Exhaustion hit him again, but he had to get up. Clenching his jaws, closing his eyes again, he sat straight. A persistent headache made him feeling dizzy, and his vision was blurred. Where was he? He remembered the warehouse. He had been looking for ... For something. He remembered that unpleasant exhaustion. He had fallen asleep, and now... Now, what? The Uncle agent shook his head, immediately regretting it, as a new twinge of pain made him wince. He stopped moving, breathing deeply, trying to relax. Weber. They were looking for Weber. He was supposed to be there, but the wharehouse had been a trap. Napoleon Solo hoped that the others were safe. He managed to kneel down, slowly, carefully, and got up. This room was really small; he could touch the ceiling... No windows, no door. At least, he couldn't see any. Food? Water? Air? He couldn't help shivering, as he realized he was having trouble breathing: perhaps he wouldn't have to worry about food and water.

* * *

Alexander Waverly stared at the Russian agent, motioning him to sit down. He puffed at his pipe; Illya Kuryakin was about to tell him that it wasn't lit up, but as his eyes met met the Old Man's ones, he knew better than commenting.

-We are in trouble, Mr Kuryakin.

In trouble. Illya Kuryakin's heart missed a beat. The London HQ? The Soviet government? He forced himself to keep impassive. So, he would have to go back « home ». Or he would have to defect. That' was what Waverly was probably going to suggest him to do. But he didn't want to. Neither go « home », neither defect. A part of him knew for sure that his life, his future would be there, at the New York Uncle HQ. But a part of him was, and would still be unfailingly Russian. Had he to choose, and obviously he had to...he would come back home, whatever would happen. He breathed deeply and cleared his voice, but the Old Man went on.

-We lost Mr Solo.

Half a second of relief, but Illya Kuryakin immediately leaned forward. « We lost... »? Alexander Waverly pointed at a photo.

-You listened at us, yesterday. Mr Solo was in that warehouse, and he disappeared. The other agents were outside, they didn't notice anything, no noise, no move. But as they wondered why Mr Solo didn't come out, they entered the place, and it was deserted. No trace of Mr Solo. Not the slightest.

Waverly paused, staring at the young man.

-Mr Kuryakin... You met Weber, didn't you?

Illya Kuryakin bit his lip, smiling bitterly. Yes, he had met Weber. He had tailed him, cornered him. He knew for sure that he would have been able to track him down. It wasn't boasting, just evidence. But of course, someone else had to be the triumphant. So he had been ordered to go away. And they had pitifully failed. Waverly gave a little cough, looking at him with attention.

-I am aware of what happened, Mr Kuryakin. But you know the man. What can you tell us about Weber?

The Russian leaned back. Obeying his superior's orders, in London, had been the right thing to do, he knew it for sure. Had he disobeyed... He could have savored, in a way, their failure, but Weber...

-Evil, sir. Weber is evil. He doesn't work with Thrush for money, well, not only. He first works for them because he likes it.

Illya Kuryakin stopped. Alexander Waverly raised an inquiring eyebrow.

-What I mean, sit, is that Weber is kind of a perfectionist, when it's about to find the most malicious way of carrying out a plan.

Waverly pursed his lips. The Russian hesitated, but went on.

-Of course, it's also his weakness, and ...

-And, Mr Kuryakin?

-And it might have saved Mr Solo's life, for a few hours. Weber must be enjoying himself, at the moment, and he won't give up taking advantage of the situation. He could have been ordered to kill him, sir, but he'll take time. A little time.

Alexander Waverly frowned, sighed and replied softly.

-That's really reassuring, Mr Kuryakin.


	3. Chapter 3: Good vibrations

The Russian knitted slightly his brows.

-Weber has a passion, sir. He is mad about circus, and precisely about magic tricks.

-What do you mean, Mr Kuryakin?

-Mr Solo was in the warehouse, sir, and the other agents were outside. A magician's common trick is to make people or object disappear, and reappear.

Alexander Waverly was listening attentively.

-The magician pretends he is doing impossible things, but it's just delusion. Deception. The three men outside, didn't notice anything. Their attention has been drawn away. I mean... Mr Solo asked them to look for some clues about Weber. They didn't watch the warehouse, sir, and as you told me, they didn't keep a precise timing.

Alexander Waverly was staring at him expectantly, and couldn't help startling when the young man stood up, bending over the desk.

-I have to go there, sir. I think that Mr Solo is still somewhere, in the warehouse, or next to it.

-Our agents have gone through the place with a fine-tooth comb, Mr Kuryakin.

-But they didn't notice anything. Mr Solo was in the warehouse, then, he wasn't any longer.

Illya Kuryakin paused, pursed his lips and sat down, with a smile of apology.

-I am sorry, sir. I didn't want...

* * *

The three agents had settled themselves in their car, while their fellows were exploring the place. Waverly's orders hadn't pleased them, but they were aware of their shortcomings. It was deserted, it was, really. They had raised, lifted, turned over all around, and Napoleon Solo was missing.

* * *

He tried to assess the size of the room, the volume of air. The others, where were they? What were they doing? Were they alive? Were they looking for him?

* * *

The young man sank back into silence. Alexander Waverly was still staring at him. Suddenly, he pressed a button.

-Lisa? Call Mr Milton. Immediately.

He gave the Russian a piercing look.

-You are going to the warehouse, Mr Kuryakin. Mr Milton will take you there. Let's hope you are right. Mr Kuryakin? A problem?

Illya Kuriakin bit his lips, but replied honestly.

-Weber... Weber could be still there, too, sir. He enjoys himself in such tricks. He wouldn't give up the entertainment. He could have some reinforcements.

The Old Man raised an eyebrow.

-And, young man?

-Mr Milton isn't a field agent anymore, sir.

Alexander Waverly couldn't help sneering. His young blond Russian agent was worrying about Robert Milton's safety... The said blond Russian tilted his head slightly on the right.

-Well, Mr Kuryakin, eight agents had explored the place. I guess you'll take care of our old Mr Milton.

-I am sorry, sir, I didn't want to...

* * *

He couldn't assess the size, and that didn't matter, as he couldn't remember any formula. It was quite a stupid way to go. Napoleon Solo cursed at himself. He had to take his mind off of this, he had to concentrate on something else, on a way to escape. He remembered the young man he had met in Waverly's office. Young? Older than he looked like to be, quick-witted. A partner. His partner-to-be. Or not.

* * *

-Our young friend, Mr Milton, is worrying about you.

Illya Kuryakin had left Waverly's office, in order to get ready. Bob Milton smiled.

-He is worrying about me, sir? And... why?

Alexander Waverly pointed at the other man with his pipe.

-Mr Kuryakin thinks that our villain could still be there, and that... it might be dangerous for you, as you are'nt anymore a field agent... I ordered him to take care of you.

Bob Milton rolled his eyes, but knew better than to reply, as he noticed his superior's look.

-But, Mr Milton, I want you to watch our young man's back.

The other man chuckled.

-I don't think that he needs...

Alexander Waverly cut in.

-No, Bob, he doesn't. Concerning the villains, he doesn't. But I guess that our three agents won't be pleased when he'll poach on their preserves...

-Is there any chance?

-I don't know. We are investigating, and there are no traces. Napoleon Solo has vanished into thin air... Now, don't waste time.

* * *

They looked at their fellow agent, open-mouthed. The man shrugged his shoulders. Yes, Alexander Waverly had sent some new reinforcements: an old retired agent, and ... a young ... rookie.

-A rookie? Are you sure?

-Yes, a rookie.

He hesitated, but he had to tell them.

-The ... Russian! They'll be there in one hour, I think. And Waverly want us to explore again the warehouse.

They kept a heavy silence.

* * *

Leaning back against his seat, Illya Kuryakin closed his eyes. It looked like to be pure presumption, he knew it. Bob Milton squeezed his shoulder.

-Here we are, Illya.

The UNCLE agents were waiting for them, eight men standing next to the warehouse, eight men staring at the two ones who were coming up to them. They knew Bob Milton. The other... The new agent, the Russian... A blond, thin, almost skinny... young, very young man... A damned Commie... Illya Kuryakin could hear their thoughts, but Bob Milton made quick introductions. They raced into the warehouse. It was empty and deserted, there was no place to hide, no way out, except for the door.

-Please, would you keep silent?

All of the Uncle agents stared at the Russian who had knelt down on the ground. He put his finger on his lips, standing up lithely.

-I would like you to gather here and to jump simultaneously, at my signal.

Of course, he wanted to mock at them. Illya Kuryakin sighed and went on.

-Then, we'll do that again here, and here, and...

-What the hell do you think you are here for, man?

The man had barked rudely. Bob Milton took some steps forward and joined the Russian. Illya Kuryakin smiled faintly. He knelt down again, putting his hands on the ground.

-It's about vibrations. Perhaps... perhaps there is something below. If you jump all together... Please? If Mr Solo is here...


	4. Chapter 4: Counting backwards

-Here? We explored this place, we went through it with a fine-tooth comb! That's ground, nothing else!

Illya Kuryakin let his fingers play with the gravels for a few seconds. Then, he replied, calmly.

-Weber loves circus, and among all, magic tricks.

One of the other agents took some steps forward.

-Magic tricks? Are you kidding?

The Russian nodded.

-No. I met the man, and he is fond of magic tricks, truquage, delusion, fake...

The agent turned to his fellows.

-We were there, outside. We didn't see anything, we didn't hear anything, but when we came back, Napoleon Solo had disappeared. We... It could be.. We could...

They jumped. A dull noise. The Russian was keeping his hands on the ground, listening attentively, and they jumped, moving as he motioned them to, until he raised his head, suddenly. Looking at each face, he nodded. They jumped again, and they felt. They felt the ground quivering. A slight vibration, and a different sound. The ground?

A dusty ground, some old paving, dense, hard, covered with gravel wasn't expected to quiver, but it did. The Uncle agents turned to the Russian, and Bob Milton couldn't help smiling. A few minutes ago, they had looked at the blond man with a mix of despise and disgust. At the moment, they were obviously expecting him to give new orders. Undoubtedly, Waverly's new recruit was very ... interesting.

Illya Kuryakin was concentrating himself on the gravels. He raised his head.

-Would please jump again? And, please, look at the gravels.

The agents jumped again, and the older man stared at the gravels attentively. They moved. Slightly, but they moved.

* * *

Napoleon Solo forced himself to breathe slowly, calmly, because, unexpectedly, he could still breathe. He had still some rare air. A lot of worrisome things had happened, but he could breathe. He found it difficult to gather any precise memory, but he was alive.

* * *

The Uncle agents knelt down, being about to clear the ground, looking for a trap-door.

-No!

The word had cracked like a whip. They stopped, amazed, and turned to the blond man. Illya Kuryakin insisted with an urging tone.

-Don't do that.

Bob Milton was puzzled.

-But if Napoleon Solo is here, below, Illya, we have to...

The Russian shook his head.

-No, we can't do it this way. We...

-No? And why? What the hell are you saying?

The other man had barked, and the others nodded. What was this Russian babbling? Illya Kuryakin got up, slowly, staring at the agents, his blue eyes turning ice-gray.

-Weber isn't a fool. I told you that I met him. He has managed to abduct Mr Solo, in a very theatrical way, and probably there are to be some surprises in store for us.

Yes. Milton sighed. Of course.

The blond guy was right, and they knew it. Though, it didn't please them.

The Russian knelt down, bent over the ground, and started to brush away the gravels and the dust, carefully, patiently, his fingers flying, moving, pausing, digging imperceptibly. Suddenly, he stopped.

-There is a crack, here; it might be a trap door. And this...

He motioned them to come closer.

-This is a wire.

-A wire? You mean... It's...

-Booby-trapped.

* * *

Napoleon Solo had no idea what Weber's intentions were. Though he hated the thought, he depended upon his enemy's plan, or his fellow agents' help. He was a prisoner, and... and he wasn't. Not an ordinary one. The Thrush villain could have killed him. He had abducted him, locked him in this strange cell, and... nothing. No questioning, no drug, no torture. The Uncle agent had been there for hours. Hours?

It was an unpleasant situation, a very unpleasant one. He remembered how tired, how exhausted he had felt, suddenly. He had lain down on the ground, all he wanted was to take a nap. To lie down, and to sleep. A nap? In the middle of an assignment? He could have called his men, he should have, but... Napoleon Solo was panting, he leaned back against the wall, forcing himself to breathe slowly.

* * *

The warehouse was as silent as a cathedral, the Uncle agents clearing carefully the ground. A trap door was now visible, A small trap door, and some wires. Bob Milton smiled imperceptibly. He had read the young Russian's file. Explosives. This was Illya Kuryakin's field, with Jules Cutter's agreement. That was something.

He tilted his head, thoughful. A small trap door, quite close to the wall.

* * *

It was an unusual cell, Napoleon Solo thought. Though the walls weren't damp, it smelled ... humidity. Not dankness. Just... humidity. And... the Uncle agent breathed in... And something metallic.

_-I hope you're fine, Mr Solo._

The nasal voice gave him a start. He looked around, but the room was deserted. Though the light was so dim, he knew it for sure.

-Don't worry. The game will end soon. Let's wait for the finishing piece...

* * *

Illya Kuryakin stood up, creased his nose, raised an eyebrow. Then, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving a group of quite stunned Uncle agents.


	5. Chapter 5: Partners to be?

It was an amazing feeling, amazing and uncomfortable. He was simultaneously an Uncle agent, an actor and his own director. As an Uncle agent, he had to think about the tricky situation, to solve problems, to defeat the enemy. As a director, he had to take the audience into account. Those men were his fellow agents, but they were an audience, too. A not so benevolent one. As an actor, he had to play his part, to extemporize. He felt exhausted. It was unfair. Those men weren't that bad. They worried about Napoleon Solo. Napoleon Solo. His « partner-to-be ». The trapdoor, the wires, it had been too easy, too obvious. The villain was somewhere, enjoying himself.

* * *

-Where are you?

How brilliant, Solo! How clever! As if the man would answer. The Uncle agent was alone. This strange cell was deserted and resonant. What had he said? The game would end soon. They had to wait for the finishing piece... Napoleon Solo forced himself to calm down. So the game wasn't over. They had captured him, and though the game wasn't over. A finishing piece?

* * *

-Illya?

The Russian was standing in front of the window. His back still to the other men, he raised his hand, pointing at the outside.

-What's this?

Bob Milton came up to the young man. He was staring at the dilapidated construction when a voice barked impatiently behind them.

-That's an old water tank. And yes, we checked it. What are you doing? It's a ruin, empty, deserted. That's a trick, a delusion. Look at this place! It isn't a Thrush base. It's just...

He paused, looking around. The others didn't react. They were waiting. Waiting for what? For this Russian's brilliant ideas?

-You're right... and you're wrong.

As he was speaking, Illya Kuryakin turned calmly to the man.

-You're right. This place is a trick, a delusion. But you're wrong: it's a Thrush base. At least, it was one.

* * *

-Your friends are really dense, Mr Solo.

Napoleon Solo flattened himself against the wall, and started to take a step after another, trying to spot the voice. It was different, this time. It sounded annoyed, impatient. The man has said: "your friends". His friends? The other agents, probably. He was breathing easier. It was good to be again his old self. So, he was somewhere, next to the warehouse. Some Uncle agents were looking for him, and the villain was obviously in trouble. Had he expected the others to leave, without going through the place with a fine-tooth comb? They would find. Napoleon Solo smiled at himself.

-I am very disappointed, you know.

More impatient, with a hint of anger, a childish anger. The villain didn't like vexations, and he needed to talk, to explain. The dark haired man kept silent, still listening.

-I thought that Mr Kuryakin would spot it quicker.

Kuryakin? Illya Kuryakin? The Russian?

* * *

-He is here.

-We know that! What...

Illya Kuryakin shook his head.

-I mean, Weber. Mr Solo is here, but... so is Weber. When you left the warehouse, he managed to capture Mr Solo, with some gas, probably. Then, he has taken him away, using the trapdoor.

-We didn't see anything, you know. The ground... the ground was...

The Russian bit his lips. They were wasting time, but he had to explain.

-I think he used a draught. Then, as you see, the trap door is close to the entrance. As you came in, you walked there.

The impatient one retorted flatly.

-So, stop talking, now! Let's clear the way! We're wasting time, and...

Illya Kuryakin cut in, his blue eyes turning icy gray.

-No, listen to me, please. Weber couldn't leave this place. You'd have seen him, heard him. So, he's here, with Napoleon Solo. And he's waiting.

-Waiting? Here? Under our feet?

-No. This is a way out, just a way out. It's a nasty trick... You know, Weber had to leave England, more exactly, he had to run away, and to hide for six months. He has to even things up, to prove himself in the US. So, he set it all up. Capturing Napoleon Solo, and...

He paused, looking at the others.

-And possibly blowing up some Uncle agents. Weber is somewhere, outside, enjoying the show, counting his trophies.

* * *

Napoleon Solo shook his head. The Russian have had to deal with Weber. He knew the man. Eventually, a good way to start their partnership.

-A Russian, in the New York UNCLE HQ... That's amazing, and your Alexander Waverly is a strange old fox. Unfortunately, he won't derive any profit from his new recruit.


	6. Chapter 6: Two birds with one stone

The Russian's attitude was really amazing. Bob Milton had taken some steps back, admiring the game. The young man spoke with a serene assurance, and the others were listening. Amazing, yes, and tense.

-We'll clear the trap door, defuse the bomb. But when we'll force the door open, one way or another...

He ended with an explicit gesture. They remained silent for awhile.

* * *

-Mr Solo? Mr Solo?

He was supposed to be a man of action. Though, for... well, a few hours, probably, he had done... nothing. Nothing but breathing sparingly, hopelessly. But now...

-Mr Solo?

The shrill voice betrayed the man's tension. Napoleon Solo sneered silently. He suspected that Weber might be flattening himself against the wall, listening for his prisoner's move. Time. The time was the key. The man didn't want to waste time. Outside, the Uncle agents, the blond Russian, his « partner » were obviously putting him in check.

-You won't fool me, Solo!

Solo? It lacked courtesy. Some trouble, Mr Weber?

* * *

-If he's there, all we have to do is to go out and...

-No, of course not! Think of the consequences!

Bob Milton looked daggers at the other, as he shouted his head off.

-But...

-He's watching us. Do you think he'll give himself up?

The other shrugged his shoulders, and replied petulantly, defying the older man.

-Firstly, we should report to Mr Waverly, I am sure he'll...

-We should, but we won't. We cant.

The blond Russian's outrageous remark caught again everyone's attention. He was looking at them, with a quite apologetic air. The angry man clenched his fists, but Illya Kuryakin pointed at his pocket.

-Try.

* * *

-Do you like fireworks, Mr Solo? Yes, probably. Unfortunately, you won't see this one...

_Keep silent._It was just a provocation. Was it? The Uncle agent gave up any further thought of it. Weber was somewhere, next to him, on the other side of this wall. He could watch the warehouse, the Uncle agents. The place was booby-trapped, but Napoleon Solo trusted his fellow agents, especially this Russian partner of his, whose file mentionned some intresting details. Jules Cutter, THE Jules Cutter, himself, had kept the Russian recruit to instruct the explosive and demolition class... Weber's plan wouldn't work that well. His friends needed time. Time he could give them. The dark haired man took a deep breath.

-Why?

He heard an unpleasant relieved sniggering.

-Back among the living you are, Mr Solo?

-Why? You got me, you could have got rid of the others...

-Ah, yes, you want to know... Okay, I'll act fair and square.

Fair and square?

* * *

He knew that he should have cut directly to the point, but the man's face was worth the effort. He was staring at his useless communicator, stupidly.

-What's the matter with the communicator? Nobody can...

The Russian cut in softly.

-Weber can. I told you. I know him, I met him in London. He's a wizard at this.

-So, we're cornered? That's what you're saying? No escape?

Illya Kuryakin bit his lips, his stern look giving way to a smile, both mischievous and childish?

-I wouldn't say that. I've a plan.

* * *

-You're... well... you're an offering. You know, a proof of my talent, a token of faithfulness.

-Some knick-knack fot the US Thrush leaders, in order to seduce them?

-Ts ts ts, Mr Solo, Knick-knack? No, of course not. You aren't knick-knack. Though...

He paused and sniggered again.

-Though, really, it hadn't been so difficult to trap you. With all due respect, of course.

The man sounded so self-satisfied. Napoleon Solo pursed his lips. Weber was right.

-And icing on the cake, I am just going to kill two birds with one stone! More than two birds... You, Napoleon Solo, some Uncle agents, and... Mr Kuryakin. My old friend Illya Kuryakin... That's more than knick-knack!

He paused again.

-I think that they've found the trapdoor, and, probably, the booby-trap. The first one. I trust Uncle agents, they'll defuse it. Then, they'll force the door open, one way or another, and... Bang, Mr Solo!

* * *

-A plan?

Illya Kuryakin was looking at them, trying to read them. Doubt, wariness, hope, trust...

-Two of you will go out, as innocently as possible, openly. They'll use a communicator, and display surprise, relief. Then, they'll report to Mr Waverly, registering uncertainty, showing the warehouse ignoring the dilapidated tank.

Bob Milton frowned.

-But...

-No, listen to me. Two agents checking their communicators outside, that's logical. Weber will choose to wait and see. By the way, Mr Waverly will be informed... The booby trapped door being here, the others are going to take shelter behind those debris. They'd be convenient shields.

-And?

-And our friend is expecting a blast. We wouldn't disappoint him...


	7. Chapter 7: The Trojan Horse

"And who...?"

The man bit his lips, frowning. What was he doing? This Russian was eventually an Uncle agent, though... though he didn't look like to be one, neither an Uncle agent, nor a KGB one. He was probably trustworthy. Alexander Waverly trusted him. He had spotted the trapdoor, he had guessed about the booby-trap... he... But this blond man wasn't their superior, he wasn't a senior agent, he wasn't the man in charge. The man cleared his throat, and turned to Bob Milton, ignoring Illya Kuryakin.

"Mr Milton, you'll be safer within the warehouse. I'll go out with Moore. You, and you ... you'll take care of Mr Milton. You... Mr Kuryakin, you..."

Bob Milton gulped. His forehead furrowed, his eyes darkened. The other man bit his lips, unwittingly. What? Milton wasn't a field agent any more. He shouldn't have been there, and, anyway, Waverly wouldn't like them to expose him to ...

"Mr Milton will go out with... with Mr ... Moore."

The Russian's voice was amazingly calm. Unflappable, he wasn't asking, he wasn't giving orders. He was just saying what was to be done.

"But..."

"Mr Milton will be safer outside, as I intend to blast this place."

Milton was foaming.

"Young man, I..."

"Please, Bob?"

Please, obey. Please, believe me. Please, trust me. The tone was serene, the eyes were urging. Leaving the field hadn't been that easy. Bob Milton had just gone through a quite unpleasant time of his life, and this... this was exciting. He wasn't a field agent anymore, but he wasn't, either, an old man, an innocent.

"Please."

The word had been whispered. It wasn't an order. The Russian's expression was inscrutable. Poker face. Bob Milton sighed and gave up, nodding reluctantly.

Illya Kuryakin was trying to avoid any situation where the others might think he was pulling rank on them. All he had to do was to wait.

* * *

"Do you know about the Trojan horse, Mr Solo?"

It was no good. Napoleon Solo knew about the Trojan horse, of course. Weber's urbane manner disgusted him, though he had to play for time, and to spot the enemy behind the wall.

"Oh, now, you're Ulysses, Weber?"

The man sneered.

"I trust your friends, Mr Solo, really. Though, just in case, I've my own ace in the hole. An innocent, above suspicion, young man..."

The Russian.

* * *

As the others were setting a convenient shelter, the blond man was crouched down, staring at the trap door and at the wires. Lowry was peeping at him when someone slapped on his arm, discreetly.

"Are we going to do that? Seriously? I am not sure..."

Moore was whispering, his face betraying his trouble. Lowry's eyes narrowed in earnest.

"Moore, you'll be outside with Milton, and..."

The young agent frowned impatiently, shaking his head. He peeked at the Russian, and hissed.

"Why? Why Milton? Logically, he'd be safer in there! I think... I could misjudge him, but..." Moore was hesitating, his gaze incessantly coming back to the blond man. "It's a trick, Lowry. I don't trust him. He said he had met Weber. He found the trapdoor, the wires so easily... I don't know why he wants the old man to be outside, but..."

Lowry nodded imperceptibly, motioning the young man to pick up a piece of wood and to go back to the shelter. Then, he headed to the Russian, standing right behind him.

"Kuryakin, Milton will stay here. I'll go out with Moore. I am the senior agent. I am the one in charge."

He stiffened instinctively, but the crouched silhouette didn't move.

"As you please, Mr Lowry."

As he pleased? Nothing more? No comment? Just this almost indifferent acceptance? Lowry was about to call the others when the calm voice added seriously.

"So, Mr Moore is obviously eager to go with you outside."

Lowry gulped, unable to speak for one second. He had heard them. The Russian turned to him, his blue eyes suddenly darkening.

"Be careful, Mr Lowry. _Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes_."

This Russian guy was threatening him! Was he? And what had he said? The senior agent shrugged his shoulders. It didn't sound Russian.

"It's a quote from a Roman poet, Mr Lowry. "_I fear the Danaans, even when bringing gifts_" The priest Laocoon tried to warn the Trojans not to accept the wooden horse the Greek army had left behind, vainly, and Troy has been destroyed."

Was he kidding? Lowry cleared his throat when Illya Kuryakin got up lithely. Though he was a few inches taller, the older agent couldn't help taking a step back.

"Weber needed some help, Lowry. A very clever, very efficient, above suspicion Trojan horse."

* * *

Not the Russian. Of course not. The idea struck him suddenly. An ace in the hole. Illya Kuryakin was a newcomer. There were others.

"Some move, at least!"

Weber's voice gave him a start, as he realized that the man was really close. The villain sounded obviously relieved.


	8. Chapter 8: Looking daggers

He heard a smothered curse. What was happening – or not – didn't please Weber. So there was a traitor, one of those men was a traitor. Napoleon Solo didn't like the idea, of course, but at least it made the situation clear.

* * *

Lowry felt still uncomfortable. He had pulled rank on the Russian, forced his idea on him. Moore distrusted Kuryakin. Lowry disliked his constantly calm attitude, but as far as Alexander Waverly himself had chosen this guy, as far as he trusted him... The older agent bit his lips. The blond was rummaging in a web of wires, ignoring them. Moore... Lowry sighed, peering around. Moore was standing next to the window, concentrated on the outside, in wait. The others were almost done with the rough-and-ready shelter. What the hell with Kuryakin's comment about Moore? He narrowed his eyes. Moore's right foot was imperceptibly rubbing the ground. His fingers were playing with his lapel. He looked like to be impatient. Of course, he was. They were, all of them. Impatient, eager to act, to fight, to defeat the villain. Moore – Damned Russian! - Moore was tense, nervous, rather than impatient. He wasn't in wait behind the window, he wasn't watching ourside. His eyes were focused on the upright of the window frame.

"I am ready."

Moore startled slightly and turned to the Russian immediately, his face betraying for one second a strange mix of relief and triumph. Lowry didn't miss it, a flood of unpleasant, stupid thoughts swallowing him up.

"One minute!" Raising a hand, he had come out with those words almost instinctively. Forcing himself to calm down, he added. "Watch outside, Moore!" He winked at the young agent. "Mr Kuryakin? I'd rather you showed me what you planned, quickly."

Moore frowned but obeyed. At least, he was pretending to.

Bob Milton motioned the others to put the finishing touches to the shelter, keeping an eye on the two men. Lowry crouched down next to the Russian, whispering.

"What did you mean, about Moore?"

Illya Kuryakin smiled, pointing theatrically at the trapdoor. The older agent was puzzled.

"What?"

The Russian was rummaging again in the wires, and Lowry had to read the words on his lips.

-Tell him you changed your mind. Tell him that you'll go out with Mr Milton"

He gulped, but the Russian added softly "Now".

* * *

"Trojan Horse, you said? What about your Trojan horse, Mr Weber? Still in the Augean Stables?"

He added on purpose an ironical chukle.

"Witty, very witty. So Uncle agents are cultured, in the US? And they have a great sense of humor?" Weber paused and went on with a harsher tone. "It won't be any use, Mr Solo! I have all the time in the world."

Napoleon Solo sneered loudly.

"No, you haven't! You're getting nervous, because you don't know what is going on, and..."

"Shut up!"

Wevber banged his fist on the wall, causing it to vibrate with a metallic sound.

"Just what I said, Weber. You're nervous..."

* * *

"Moore?"

The young agent turned to him, expectantly.

"Finally, you'll stay here. I'll go out with Milton, and..."

"NO!"

For years, this moment would remain in Lowry's memory. A few seconds, a chaos of images. Images. As Moore was barking "No!", he had got his gun, aiming at his superior, ready to shoot. Then Lowry had ended up on the ground. Moore was staring wide eyed, both with amazement and indignation, still aiming at them, His face turned suddenly blank and slowly, gracefully, he fell down, stabbed through the heart. All the others stood, holding their guns, unsure, staring at him, at the Russian, at the limp body.

Lowry got up, grimacing, rubbing his arm. A strong, powerful hand had grabbed him, throwing him down. Illya Kuryakin walked towards the body, bent over it and retrieved his stiletto. The older agent pointed at the holster.

"Why...?"

"Noise. Now, we have to leave this place as soon as possible. Let's go."

"But..."

Illya Kuryakin had casually opened the trapdoor, ignoring the others' starts. Bob Milton couldn't help exclaiming.

"But you said..."

The Russian smiled, a boyish smile."_He looks 16"_ Milton thought. "_A dangerous, efficient agent, and he looks 16_...". The blue eyes twinkled with amusement.

"Yes, I fixed it."

"But you said..."

"I lied." He paused, looking at them. "Obviously, Weber needed an accomplice. He couldn't have been able to capture Mr Solo alone. Someone who would be eager to please his master, by offering him another prisoner, a valuable one. I am sorry, Bob..."

Bob Milton chukled.

"And of course, the very last place he would want to be..." Illya Kuryakin made an eloquent gesture towards the shelter. "Now, go down. I promised some fireworks. Mr Weber is waiting for that, and I wouldn't disappoint him."

As Lowry was about to slip down the trapdoor, he stopped.

"Kuryakin?"

"Yes?"

"You saved my life."


	9. Chapter 9: Demolition and Explosive

The Uncle agents had to huddle against each others in the narrow passage. Amazingly, as soon as the Russian had locked the trapdoor, small hidden wall lamps had gone on, and flashlights were no use. Lowry threaded his way through his fellows, joining Milton next to a wooden partition. Hesitating – who knows who was behind -, he whispered inquiringly.

"He said that we would find a door...

Milton nodded, pointing at a badly nailed down plank. He pushed it, revealing was obviously a small console, half a dozen buttons flickering. Lowry sighed.

"He said that we had to wait for the explosion..."

The Uncle agent bit his lips. He looked about at Milton, at the others, at the console. There was no use in worrying, that, he knew, but the situation was quite unusual. They stood in a narrow, dim lit passage, all of them, Uncle agents, field agents and, concerning Milton, retired agent, dependent upon a newcomer, a blond Russian who looked like to be everything aside from a spy, who had, nevertheless proved to be a damned good one. "He said that..." The small blue eyed guy had said... and Lowry, the senior agent, the man in charge, had acknowledged him as a leader. He rubbed his chin, peeping again at Milton.

"He stayed in the warehouse. I should have..."

Milton shared Lowry's worries about the Russian. He had made the point that Illya Kuryakin knew his job, but definitely, the situation was making him uncomfortable. Lowry expressed his own thoughts.

"He wants to blast the warehouse. We are here... I... I should have stayed with him."  
"No..."

The older man's face softened, and he repeated: "No." As Lowry was about to speak, Milton went on. "Jules Cutter asked him to teach Demolition and Explosive at the Survival School..."

"Jules Cutter?"

In spite of the situation, the same idea had occurred to their minds, bringing a smile to their faces. Jules Cutter, the sturdily built Cutter, facing the (too) slender Illya Kuryakin and his (too) long (too) blond hair, looking at him up and down, suspicious, pursing disgusted lips at the sight, determined to get rid of the insulting intruder as soon as possible.

The passage quaked around them.

* * *

Napoleon Solo hardly contained his impatience. At the moment, there was nothing he could do on his own, and that was frustrating. So was it, probably, concerning Weber. A consolation. The men in the warehouse, his... partner, had the lead. It was no use to see the villain, Napoleon Solo thought. He didn't hear him anymore. Weber kept silent, watching out, getting worried. The Uncle agent smiled. He was powerless, but the enemy was losing control.

_First, it was a deep thunder, hardly audible, getting closer and closer, though, suddenly turning into a deafening howling, thousands desperate voices screaming yelling, whistling. Then, rattles and shocks..._

Sounds create powerful images.

Napoleon Solo could see the dazzling light, the flames, the threatening twirls of a deadly black smoke.

The partition he had flattened against vibrated. The floor quaked, causing him to totter.

All of a sudden, it stopped.

There still remained screeching whispers, faint creaks.

And another noise. A coughing fit, someone panting, choking. Weber.

The air, in the cell, was getting heavier with dust, an insidious dust. The Uncle agent made himself a mask with his lapel.

Dust.

Dust? There?

The reality was slowly taking roots in his mind, a very unpleasant reality. The warehouse had been blown up. Weber had told about a crowning piece.

There was dust in the cell.

His fellows, his friends, his partner-to-be had failed.

The man, outside, was still choking with dust, and – yes - with a scornful, detestable laughter. He could go with the devil, Napoleon Solo thought, blinking.

Anger was no use, he knew it.

"_There is no place for your own feelings during a mission. Whatever happens, you've got to fulfill the assignment. Regrets and anger are weaknesses. Seeking for a revenge is useless." _

It was a spy's motto. Waverly's words were: "You're expendable."

They were. They lived, they were expected to succeed. They could die.

"_My fault_."

Guilt. Regrets, anger and guilt were weaknesses.

Weber had captured him. The others, his friends, his partner-to-be had been trapped, killed, perhaps – probably? - and he was the one to be blamed for that.

Dust. Dust. There was dust in the cell. So much dust.

* * *

The passage quaked around them, the whole passage. Lights flickered and went out, dust showering on the Uncle agents.

"Everybody's fine?" Lowry had got his flashlight, staring at them. They looked like to be... He frowned at Milton's face.

"Mr. Milton? Are you..."

The older man turned his own flashlight to the dilapidated console, which was throwing sparks.

"I am fine. This... This isn't."

The wooden partition had given way to a huge steel door.

Great. The warehouse had collapsed upon them. They couldn't go back to it. They were cornered in the corridor. Icing on the cake, air would probably run short soon. Had he survived, the Russian would have to cope with Weber on his own. Had he survived.

"Sir?"

Lowry couldn't help barking.

"Switch it off! We'll need..."

The younger agent shook his head.

"The communicators! They work, now!"


	10. Chapter 10: Check Mate

"Kuryakin?"

A sinister crackling was the only answer they got. Milton grabbed the communicator and yelled: "Illya? Damned... Illya!"

Their faces, despite the poor light, betrayed something like distress.

"I think that there is probably nothing wrong, sir. We built a sturdy shelter, and Mr. Kuryakin..."

The young man stopped as the flashlight pointed at him. Lowry's features, underlined with white and shadows were hardly engaging.

Being so young, so optimistic, so stupid... Bob Milton forced himself to calm down, smiling faintly.

"You're right. We built a sturdy shelter. Lowry, let's call the HQ!"

* * *

"You heard him? Revenge is never one of the top priorities!"

Cutter's harsh conclusion, as the psychologist was leaving the room, had caught Napoleon Solo's attention. "_Revenge is no use!_" The man had said. "..._is never one of the top priorities_." Cutter's comment gave ways...

Jules Cutter had noticed the young Solo's reaction to his statement. He added softly: "Sometimes, it's just about... evening things up."

The words echoed in his ears. Evening things up... That was what he had to do.

There was dust in the hermetically closed cell. Where there was dust, there was way. He stared at the dust motes wanderings through the dim light. There was a rift somewhere in the partition. He started on the search.

"Solo!"

Weber was cawing literally, but his tone sounded disagreeably triumphant. The Uncle agent froze, knowing better than to answer.

"Solo?"

Calm, self-control, coolness under pressure were parts of a good agent's personality. Keeping absolutely still, Napoleon Solo concentrated on two things. His eyes were looking for a rift. His ears listened at Weber's moves.

"Well, Mr. Solo, keep silent if you please. By the way... I'll attend to you soon. Don't worry."

Clickety-clack, scratching, clickety-clack again... Then, nothing. Silence, more or less. Weber had left the place. Napoleon Solo felt a little dizzy. He had tried to breathe as silently as possible. His sigh of relief turned into a gasp. The dust twirled strangely. He heard a few sharp snaps, and before he could do anything, something rolled down to his feet. Something? Someone. Someone who was at the moment cursing in Russian, getting up lithely. Illya Kuryakin.

As Napoleon Solo was about to speak, the Russian took hold of his arm, and dragged him towards the exit, in a strange circular gallery.

"It's an old water tank. Weber is looking for the car. Come on."

"But..." Solo pointed at the locked door. "How did you..."

Illya Kuryakin raised a finger. The older agent looked up at the ceiling, but gave up asking: a car was approaching. They flattened themselves next to the door. The Russian whispered: "He feels safe. He thinks you're asleep again."

At the moment, Solo saw a small cylinder.

Weber didn't waste time in walking in a stealthy tread. His footstep sounded loudly, and the self confident villain started to whistle, as he was unlocking the door. One minute later, he was lying down, tied up, powerless, looking useless daggers at the two Uncle agents.

Napoleon Solo stretched his arms with delight.

"Well, thank you, partner..."

The answer came, immediately.

"You're welcome, Mr. Solo."

"Napoleon."

The older agent looked around. The warehouse was reduced to a wreckage and a thought occurred to him. He turned to the Russian, inquiringly.

"The others? Illya, are they...?"

Illya kuryakin bit his lips, with a sheepish smile, quite convincing, except for a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

"They are safe, but I am afraid that... they're locked in the passage, at the moment..."

Napoleon Solo hesitated. Safe? Were they? How could he know it for sure? The blond Russian pointed his chin to the road., and the older agent smiled, there was a stream of cars at the distance.

"They called for the cavalry..."

Ignoring Weber, the two men sat down. Illya Kuryakin had closed his eyes. Napoleon Solo felt strangely fascinated. The Russian, his partner, was worth the sight. His clothes were torn, covered with a white dust. So were his disheveled hair and his face. He looked like a clown, or a kid who would have been caught playing with talcum powder or flour. Napoleon Solo was about to hold his handkerchief to him but thought better of it. The clown make-up was spotted with darker marks, soot and – Napoleon Solo frowned – blood.

"How are you doing?"

Blue eyes peered at him through dusty eyelashes.

"I am fine."

* * *

Alexander Waverly filled his pipe meticulously, lit it up and took a puff. Then, he stared at his agents, showered, shaved, dressed up, some Band-Aids on the Russian's face.

"Well, gentlemen, I read your notes; Interesting. Mr. Milton, Mr. Lowry and the others reported, too."

Illya Kuryakin felt unsure, though he tried to hide it. They had succeeded, without any casualties, capturing Weber, getting rid of a traitor... but Mr. Waverly didn't look like to be satisfied, his bushy eyebrows frowning... Suddenly, the blue eyes twinkled, and the Old Man smiled.

"What a better way to start a partnership, young men? See you tomorrow. You've something to celebrate, I think!"

As they were leaving the office, Alexander Waverly peeped at the report. The Russian's style was lacking of any adornment.

"_I blasted the warehouse, took advantage of the smoke and of the dust, and ran towards the water tank. I climbed up because I guessed I'd find a ventilation hole. I saw the strange fitting-out, and a huge rift in the partition. I heard Weber calling Mr. Solo's name. When he left the._.."

Waverly chuckled. Things promised to become very interesting.

* * *

The two walked in the gray corridor when Illya Kuryakin stopped. Napoleon Solo looked at him inquiringly.

"What did he mean? Celebrate... ?"

The dark haired man tilted his head on the right, studying the Russian with amusement. The said Russian pursed his lips.

"What's so funny?"

Solo shook his head, with his most charming smile.

"Celebrate, partner mine, means that I am going to take you to a bar..." He peeped at his watch. " No. Aren't you hungry? To a restaurant. Our success, our partnership... We have to talk! Come on, my friend..."


End file.
